


How Grantaire Lost His Hoodie

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 13:44:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8580793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: Enjolras is always cold. Grantaire loans him his hoodie to wear. You can see where this is going, can't you?





	

**Author's Note:**

> For [turquoise-candy](https://tmblr.co/mnBSHG5MasZXUZQqd2yRvRg), who requested “Enjolras who is always really cold and wears way too many layers and Grantaire who is less that way and just wears a hoodie and always has warm hands."
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

“You look like an idiot.”

Grantaire’s tone was fond, if a little exasperated, and Enjolras blinked up at him, having been previously engrossed in an article on his phone. “Excuse me?” he said.

Grantaire crossed his arms in front of his chest. “You heard me,” he said, and the few others in the back room of the Musain waiting for the meeting to start looked up, muttering to themselves (and almost certainly betting money on what was about to happen). “You look like an idiot.”

Enjolras glanced down at himself, a frown puckering his forehead. Sure, he was dressed in a few layers - a long-sleeved thermal shirt underneath a red flannel shirt underneath a puffy vest he was fairly certain Courfeyrac had bought for him as a joke, accompanied by one of Joly’s many scarves and fingerless gloves he might have stolen from Jehan at some point - but it was _cold_ out. “What?” he asked defensively. “It’s cold out.”

“It’s 82 degrees outside in the middle of September,” Grantaire told him patiently. “Aren’t you the one going on constantly about climate change?” Enjolras’s scowl deepened, but Grantaire barged on before he could interrupt. “And yes, I realize it’s climate _change_ , not global _warming_ , but this is on track to be one of the warmest Septembers on record, and you’re bundled up like it’s frigid in here.”

“What’s your point?” Enjolras snapped, not feeling particularly bothered to correct Grantaire on the many inaccuracies of what he had just said.

Grantaire sighed. “My point is that you look like a character on a Disney Channel original series, and that just won’t do for our noble leader. Not if you want anyone to actually take you seriously.” He hesitated for a moment then sighed again. “Here.”

Enjolras stared at Grantaire as he tugged off the ratty navy blue hoodie he was wearing, trying not to watch as the t-shirt he was wearing under it stuck to the hoodie and rode up. He definitely didn’t notice that Grantaire was surprisingly toned underneath his shirt. Nope, not at all. “What am I supposed to do with that?” he asked stupidly as Grantaire held the hoodie out to him.

“You’re supposed to wear it,” Grantaire said patiently, stepping forward to tug the hoodie over Enjolras’s head. Enjolras spluttered as the hoodie smushed his curls into his face, but obediently stuck his arms through the hoodie’s sleeves and let Grantaire adjust it, trying to breathe normally as Grantaire ran his hands down Enjolras’s chest, tugging the hoodie into place. “See?”

Enjolras was instantly about ten degrees warmer, and he offered Grantaire a reluctant smile. “Thanks,” he said, a little grumpily, before asking, hesitant to sacrifice his newfound warmth, “but aren’t you going to be cold?”

Grantaire waved a dismissive hand. “I’m like a furnace,” he said, tipping Enjolras a wink as he added, “It’s all the alcohol in my blood. Keeps me nice and toasty.”

While Enjolras rolled his eyes, he chose not to comment, feeling that, in light of Grantaire’s nice gesture, he’d avoid rocking the boat at least temporarily. Besides, he was warm now, and honestly didn’t want to risk Grantaire changing his mind about letting him wear his hoodie. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll get it back to you after the meeting.”

“Keep it, Apollo,” Grantaire told him, a soft sort of grin on his face as he backed away, his hands in his pockets. “Don’t get me wrong - I’ll want it back eventually. But for the moment, you can hang onto it until it actually gets cold out.”

As Grantaire headed to his customary seat in the back corner, Enjolras surreptitiously raised one of the ragged cuffs of the hoodie’s sleeves to his nose and sniffed it. It had the unmistakable scent of stale cigarettes and what was probably whiskey, along with something deeper, earthier. Something almost irresistible. 

Enjolras blushed scarlet when he realized what it was: the hoodie smelled like Grantaire.

Courfeyrac glanced over at him and noticed his flaming face. “Warm in here, isn’t it?” he asked brightly, entirely oblivious to what was going through Enjolras’s head, and he headed over to open one of the windows.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, quickly turning his attention back to what he had been doing. “Definitely warm.”

* * *

The arrival of October brought with it very little change in the weather. While the leaves had started changing colors, the weather remained almost summerlike, without a hint that winter was lurking around the corner. In fact, the weatherman declared it “unseasonably warm”, and most of Les Amis came to the Musain wearing t-shirts and even shorts.

Despite this, Enjolras stubbornly continued wearing Grantaire’s hoodie.

“Joly, is it possible to die of heat stroke?” Grantaire asked one evening, his chin propped on his hand as he watched Enjolras pull the hoodie sleeves down over his hands in an effort to keep his hands warm.

Joly didn’t even look up from the game of tic-tac-toe he was playing with Bossuet. “Yes, but it’s equally possible for Enjolras to murder you and for a court to consider it ‘justified’.”

Enjolras glared at both of them. “So my body tends to run a bit colder than most people,” he said waspishly. “If it bothers you all that much, you can have your stupid hoodie back.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Grantaire said, as Enjolras began struggling to pull the hoodie off. “It’s a billion degrees outside and the literal last thing I need is to be lugging that stupid thing home with me tonight. Besides, doesn’t it have to reek by now? Lord knows I don’t want to deal with that.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me I smell?” he asked.

Grantaire smirked. “Of course not. Just remarking that it doesn’t seem like you’ve washed that thing since I lent it to you. Which was over a month ago, for anyone not keeping track.”

As if there was a chance at this point that any of Les Amis weren’t keeping track.

“Have so washed it,” Enjolras said petulantly.

He had in fact done no such thing, afraid that washing it would wash all of the scent out of it. And truth be told, though he would never admit it to anyone except an equally drunk Combeferre late one night after one too many tequila shots foisted upon them by Courfeyrac, he liked the smell. There was something comforting about it. Something that reminded him of late nights spent at the Musain with no one but Grantaire for company. Something that reminded him of the time he fell asleep against Grantaire’s shoulder on the ride home from a protest. Something that smelled like home.

“Besides,” Enjolras continued, “you’re going to have to lug it home with you sooner or later. It is going to start getting cold out one of these days, and I won’t be held responsible for you catching pneumonia or something equally stupid.”

Grantaire heaved a dramatic sigh. “My dear Enjolras, the day you get held responsible for my stupidity will be the start of the end of the world.” Enjolras glared at him, but Grantaire just gave him a beatific smile. “And anyway, we’ll just have to see about me lugging it home. Marble gets so cold, after all, and we wouldn’t want that.”

Enjolras just rolled his eyes and snuggled deeper into the folds of the hoodie. He _would_ give it back, damn it. Even if at this point it was only out of spite.

* * *

One day in early November, Grantaire arrived to the Musain and stopped in his tracks, staring at Enjolras, who scowled at him. “Problem?” Enjolras asked dryly.

“You’re not wearing my hoodie,” Grantaire said.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Enjolras said sarcastically, nodding towards Grantaire’s usual table. “I left your hoodie for you there. I don’t need it anymore.”

Grantaire took an automatic step towards his table, his expression curiously blank. “Is this because you think I’m going to be cold?” he asked, his voice as blank as his expression. “Because I do own other hoodies, you realize.”

Enjolras frowned. “It’s not about that,” he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Besides, I thought you’d be happy to have your stupid hoodie back. After all, you were the one who said that I would have to give it back to you eventually.” He raised an eyebrow at Grantaire. “Or is the idea of me wearing your clothes just _that_ appealing to you?”

“I always like the idea of you in my clothes, Apollo, if for markedly different reasons,” Grantaire shot back, leering at Enjolras and smirking when he blushed. “But fine, if you’re done with it, you’re done with it.” He picked up the hoodie and smelled it, looking surprised. “You even washed it for me, I see.”

For some reason, this comment caused Enjolras to blush slightly, and he looked away. “I told you, I’ve washed it plenty since you lent it to me,” he said, carefully avoiding Grantaire’s gaze. “Besides, I’m sure you didn’t want to smell like me.”

For a moment, it looked like Grantaire might make a crude joke, but he swallowed it, instead silently tugging the hoodie over his head. “Well, thank you for returning it,” he said, and Enjolras nodded without looking at him.

The matter was settled.

At least, it was settled for all of 24 hours. When Grantaire strolled in the next day, wearing the hoodie and sipping a peppermint hot chocolate spiked with whiskey, Enjolras marched over to him, scowling deeply. “I need the damn hoodie back,” he said in lieu of greeting.

Grantaire blinked at him. “And what if I don’t want to lend it to you again?” he asked.

Enjolras made a noise that might have been a growl. “Grantaire, it’s like negative twelve degrees in here, I barely slept because it was so cold in my apartment last night so I’m running on almost no sleep, and I don’t think you want to stand here and play games with me.”

Though Grantaire looked like there was nothing more he wanted to do, he nonetheless obediently pulled his hoodie off and gave it to Enjolras. “Fine. There you go.”

As Enjolras started to walk back to his seat, pulling the hoodie on as he went, Grantaire called after him, “Wait, does that you mean you’ve been sleeping in my hoodie?”

Enjolras’s glare was the only answer he needed, and Grantaire sauntered over to his own seat, a grin spreading across his face.

* * *

Grantaire’s teeth were chattering and he rubbed his hands together for warmth as he darted into the Musain. “Enjolras, I’m afraid the day you’ve most feared is here,” he announced to the room at large, though Enjolras was the only one there two hours ahead of Les Amis’ annual holiday yankee swap. “I need the damn hoodie back.”

“What?” Enjolras asked, automatically wrapping his arms around himself. “Why?”

Grantaire frowned. “Well, first of all, it’s December. Second of all, it’s actually getting cold out. And third of all, the furnace in my apartment building is broken, and that stupid hoodie is the only one large enough to fit over the eighteen layers I need to wear to not freeze to death.”

Enjolras hesitated. “You can always come stay at my place until your heat is fixed,” he hedged.

Grantaire stared at him. “You’d rather let me stay with you instead of just giving me the hoodie back?” he asked, incredulous.

“Maybe,” Enjolras said, blushing a little when he realized how ridiculous that sounded. “Actually, yes. I really like this hoodie, and besides, possession is nine-tenths of the law, so really, the hoodie is practically mine now.”

“The fuck kind of cockamamie logic is that?” Grantaire asked, clearly baffled.

Enjolras scowled at him. No matter how ridiculous the fight, he disliked his logic being called anything other than exemplary. “The kind that means you can pry this hoodie off of my cold, dead body.”

Grantaire looked up at the ceiling as if seeking heavenly assistance. “And if you don’t give it back to me, a cold, dead body might be all that’s left of me tomorrow morning.” Enjolras didn’t seem moved and Grantaire rolled his eyes, telling him impatiently, “I can buy you a damned sweatshirt if it’s that big of a deal.”

“It’s not just any sweatshirt, though,” Enjolras argued, the same look in his eye as he got when arguing about rights for undocumented immigrants. “This one is perfect. It’s just big enough to be comfortable but not so big as I look ridiculous. It’s insanely warm and it smells like--”

He broke off abruptly and Grantaire’s eyes widened. “It smells like what?” he asked quietly.

Enjolras suddenly became very interested in staring at the floor. “It smells like you,” he mumbled.

Grantaire stared at him for a long moment before asking in a strained voice, “And what exactly were you planning on doing when the scent fades?”

“Probably what I did last month,” Enjolras muttered, shrugging.

For a moment, Grantaire looked confused, then realization dawned. “You gave it back to me just so I could make it smell like me again?” he asked.

Enjolras shrugged again. “Well, after I washed it, it didn’t smell the same, so…”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Grantaire said impatiently, striding over to Enjolras. “There’s an easier way to make it smell like me, you idiot.”

Enjolras finally looked up at him. “How?”

Without saying a word, Grantaire grabbed him and kissed him. For a moment, Enjolras’s eyes widened, but then he seemed to melt into the kiss, slinging his arms around Grantaire’s neck as Grantaire snaked his hands inside the hoodie to rest possessively against Enjolras’s hips.

When they pulled apart, Enjolras bit his lip and smiled almost shyly at Grantaire. “You have warm hands.”

Grantaire chuckled. “Thanks,” he said, reaching down to lace his fingers with Enjolras’s. He instantly yelped and dropped Enjolras’s hand. “And you have freezing hands! Jesus Christ, when did you die?”

Enjolras just laughed and reached up to pat Grantaire’s cheek, grinning when Grantaire leapt backwards. “I’m going to have to do something about that,” Grantaire muttered, reaching out to grab both of Enjolras’s hands, rubbing them between his own. He looked down at their hands. “This, uh, this isn’t going to be a problem, is it?”

“No,” Enjolras said contemplatively. “I’m thinking that I won’t need to wear gloves as much this winter.”

Grantaire scowled at him. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Enjolras grinned and leaned in to kiss him. “I know.” They kissed for another moment before Enjolras told him, “And you know that you’re never getting this hoodie back.”

Grantaire sighed. “No, I figured not,” he said mournfully. After a second, he brightened. “But hey, on the other hand, I forgot to bring a gift for yankee swap, so I guess you can consider that my gift to you.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Typical,” he muttered.

“Pretty much,” Grantaire agreed, leaning in to kiss him once more. “Merry Christmas.”

“Happy Holidays,” Enjolras automatically corrected.

Grantaire kissed him. “Yeah, I’m thinking that they will be.”


End file.
